Chapter Text
The chamberlain gives the string one final shake, the teeth strung upon the length of cord clacking as they settle down upon the knot on its end. Satisfied, the chamberlain ties off the other end of the string to secure the teeth, and hands it to the woman before her.
The Hunter takes the proffered cord without a word. Like the chamberlain, the Hunter sits on folded legs in the room’s center. Both kneel upon thick woven rugs, though the chamberlain doubts the Hunter would care if her knees rested directly on the stone floor instead. Stone comprises the walls and ceiling of this room as well-- rough hewn but square enough to comfortably nestle shelves along the room’s perimeter. The shelves mostly store bowls of teeth, although they also contain carefully organized sets of other bones. There is only one doorway in the room, and it is flanked by two guards. The guards stand dutifully at attention, but hold themselves with an uncertainty that belies an unfamiliarity with their role. No matter. Their position is for ceremony more than anything else.
Though the chamberlain already counted the tooth beads before her, the Hunter counts them again herself, carefully thumbing over the enamel bits. The chamberlain does not mind. She folds her hands neatly into her lap. And uses the time to study her guest.
At a glance, the Hunter is unremarkable. Her ash-brown skin is common enough, as is her lean, bony construction. There is little of her face to make out under both the shadow of her hat’s brim and her storm cloud of hair, but what is visible has the gaunt, stretched-thin look one would expect of an outerland inhabitant. Only her clothes hint at her age -- the chamberlain guesses her scarred leather duster is at least as old as her grandmother. However, this too is not particularly noteworthy. Materials are precious in these parts of the world, especially anything organic. If at all possible, belongings will see many generations before they are finally taken apart and used elsewhere.
But the longer one stares, the more it becomes apparent that there is something off about the Hunter. There is a gravity to her, something that goes beyond the way she is eerily still and moves without a single unnecessary twitch. She is far, far older than that jacket she wears.
The Hunter finishes counting and stows the teeth in a pouch on her hip with a nod. Ninety-six total. Three full sets of dentition. A not-insignificant amount for a small outerlands village. However, they would have forked over the jawbones too if she’d asked for it. Though she would do her work with or without payment, it is a point of practicality -- if not pride -- among the outer towns to keep the amalgat-slayer well stocked.
“Our thanks again, for slaying the devourer,” says the chamberlain, placing her palms to the floor and bowing until her forehead touches the backs of her fingers. She straightens, hands returning to her lap. She smooths a skirt draped with tooth-beaded cords much like the one she just handed over. A symbol of her office. “Unless there is anything more you require from me, the rest of your reward is awaiting you outside.”
the Hunter informs the chamberlain that their business is concluded by way of standing and making for the exit. As she pushes aside the leather flap that serves as the door, the two guards at the entrance give her a deep bow.
More bows follow on her way out the village. There are only a handful of people out and about, but each takes pause of their activity to duck their head for the passing hunter.
The village itself lies tucked beneath a ledge cut through the side of the cliff. On one side of the main street, the stone wall is littered with openings, caves both natural and carved that serve as the villagers' homes. The Hunter glimpses of more inhabitants behind leather and pebble-beaded curtains, peering out to watch her.
On the other side of the main street lies open air. The ground falls open to a ravine hacked through the land like the work of some bored god’s knife. Here and there, the village folk have erected a few railings along the edge, but mostly they rely on common sense to keep from getting too close to the dizzying drop. The village lies on the cliffside facing away from the sun, but it’s high enough on the cliff’s face to see over the ravine and to the craggy, black landscape beyond. In the distance, lava fields provide a dim ruddy glow.
It’s a nice place to live, all things considered. Hundreds of feet of stone on three sides provide more than adequate shelter from both dust storms and acid rain. If anything, the rain is a boon with so much earth overhead: by the time it’s finished seeping through the ceiling to where the aquifers lie it’s perfectly safe to drink. There is a tradeoff, however, in that the village, having only one easily accessible entrance and exit, is easily boxed in. This makes amalgats even more a headache than usual among outerland villages.
All the more reason to do well by the amalgat-slayer.
The ground slopes upward, the doorways and windows become fewer. Shortly, the Hunter reaches the end of the main street, where the ledge the village calls home meets the cliff’s topside. There, two people await her, along with her horse. One is a stocky woman with dark skin and long hair. Next to her fidgets a boy who may be her son, given that he shares her complexion and build. Both wear what must be their finest clothing. It’s still silk, not cotton or flax -- a place that uses bone for currency can’t afford to dream of fancy imported brightlands fabric -- but the weave is fine and the cloth is free of stains. The woman holds her horse’s reins. The boy holds a basket stacked with goods.
When the Hunter reaches the pair, the woman bows her head. The boy follows her example after being given a light kick to the ankle by his maybe-mother. While he mumbles something that might be an apology, the woman hands the Hunter her horse’s reins and begins removing items from her maybe-son’s basket. Each item she hands to the Hunter with a bow and a murmured explanation of what is being given. Oil, for tending to her saddle’s leather. Compressed lichen bricks, to feed her horse. Bullets, to slay the devourers. And so on and so forth. the Hunter waits for each explanation to finish before she takes the proffered item and places it within her saddle bags. They differ slightly from town to town, but for the most part these rituals are much the same and the Hunter finds her part in them with ease.
After all the supplies have been stowed away, the woman dusts her hands on her skirts and asks, “Is everything to your satisfaction?”
The Hunter nods. The woman returns the gesture with an air of satisfaction. She turns to leave as the Hunter makes to get in the horse’s saddle. No one gets very far, however, before the boy blurts:
“What’s the lantern for?”
The Hunter blinks.
The woman gasps. “You must forgive my son,” -- so the boy is indeed her son -- “his manners are not what I’d hoped they’d be.” With that, the woman grabs her son and tows him off, her exit as hasty as her parting words.
The Hunter watches them leave. She stares after the two long after they have disappeared from sight. Her fingers twitch.
Eventually, she turns away from the village. She mounts her horse and, after a moment of hesitation, nudges him forward.